Dark Alchemy

by Laura Bickle

  Petra stared stupidly at the warped figure before her, wound around the roots of the pine tree. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Just get here.”

  Mike sent the complete cavalry. Within fifteen minutes, a helicopter was in the sky above her, scaring the squirrels from their perches. A rescue ranger dropped down a line with a basket. There wasn’t enough room to land in this cover. Sig disappeared into the underbrush, terrified of the noise.

  “Ma’am,” the ranger shouted over the sound of the blades overhead. “Where are you hurt?”

  Petra pointed to the shape under the tree. The man wriggled out of his harness, clomped toward the bent figure. He knelt before it, and Petra could see him pale under his helmet visor. He spoke into his radio for what seemed to be a long time.

  The helicopter sound receded, and Sig glided out of the underbrush to lean against Petra’s leg.

  “What the hell is going on?” Petra shouted to the ranger.

  He held up his hand. “Stay back, ma’am.”

  Petra obliged. She retreated down the track along with Sig, away from the tree. Soon, the sound of engines could be heard. Mike and a phalanx of other rangers appeared on four-­wheelers. She breathed a sigh of relief at seeing him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, brow creased. “They said you found a body.”

  Petra shook her head. “It’s not a body. I don’t know what it is. But it’s alive.” She looked back at the pine tree, where medics had erected an oxygen tent.

  “Barely.” A female medic stood up and approached them. “I could hear a breath, but I lost it. And I don’t know how to do CPR on . . . on that.”

  “What the hell happened to him . . . her? Is this a hazmat or biohazard situation?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . I’ve got nothing on this.”

  “Time to move up the food chain, then.” Mike keyed his radio. “Get me the Department of the Interior. Tell them we have a situation.”

  The adrenaline didn’t fade gracefully.

  Petra stewed in her own adrenaline juices for hours. After hiking down the ridge on shaking legs, she stowed Sig, her guns, and the gear in the Bronco. Following Mike’s stern instructions to wait at the ranger station, she busied herself with scrubbing the skin on her hands raw and plugging in her GPS cart to charge. She’d made it to her third cup of coffee before the National Guard showed up.

  They’d questioned her for two hours before letting her go. Petra kept having to go to the bathroom, and she was sure that they thought that she was on drugs. But, damn it, she had to pee. And the coffee wasn’t helping.

  They kept wanting to know if the victim had said anything. Petra couldn’t tell them anything that made any sense, and they eventually seemed to decide that she was an idiot. At least since there wasn’t any immediate evidence of radiological or biological threat, there was no need to be stripped and hosed down in the parking lot as she’d feared. But they gave no information whatsoever about what they thought was happening.

  The Guard cleared out after midnight, trucks rumbling away in the night. Petra wondered if one of them held the body. She hadn’t seen an ambulance pass the windows.

  Mike leaned tiredly on the front counter when she came out of the ladies’ room. “Trouble follows you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Petra rubbed her eyes. “What happened? Did they take it—­him, her—­to a hospital?”

  “They tried to dig it up, but it didn’t survive. At least, that’s what they tell me. The Guard took it with them to have it analyzed at the state lab.”

  “Do we know who it was?”

  Mike frowned. “There was a hiker who went missing. His family called and said that he hadn’t checked in for several days. Some guy who showed up in spring and was determined to hike the whole area before winter. They’re gonna do a DNA test. I’m hoping that it wasn’t him, but your guess is as good as mine. And . . . I wonder if there’s any connection to what Jeff said he saw before he recanted and got driven off into the night.”

  “On Rutherford’s property?”

  “Yeah. I’ve asked the Feds to put an APB out for Jeff, see if they can find him. I want to talk to that guy without the goon squad looming over him.” Mike drummed his fingers on the countertop, his gaze unfocused.

  “Um. Not to add to your workload, but . . . I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

  “Favor?” he echoed.

  “I got a call on my cell right before I called you. Came up as an unknown number. I wonder if it would be possible to trace it.”

  “It would probably be possible.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you getting prank calls from those flyers you put up?

  “Gah. I don’t think so . . . I don’t know. It sounded a lot like my dad. He told me to get away, while I still could.”

  “Sounds like good paternal advice.” Mike stared at the ceiling, as if thinking. “We have a guy. We could justify the trace as part of an ongoing investigation—­either as part of your dad’s disappearance, or potentially associated with that body you found. But it might take some time.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate all you’re doing to help me. Really.” Petra sighed. “I’m going to go get some sleep. I’ll touch base with you in the morning?” It came out as a question, not a statement. She really wanted to leave, and didn’t want to have to wrest permission from the Guard.

  “Yeah. Just don’t leave the area. Not that you were planning on running off, since you’re having a slumber party with Maria, but I’m required to tell you that.”

  “Sure,” Petra said. But she didn’t know if she meant it.

  She kicked gravel across the parking lot to the Bronco. Her jeans squeaked on the pleather seat as she got inside and slammed the door. She fished her cell phone out to dial Maria’s number and announce that she was inviting herself over. Fog had formed on the inside of the glass, frosting the interior in the dim light of the ranger station. Coyote nose smears decorated the glass.

  “Sig?”

  She expected to find him snoring on the floorboards, but nothing furry moved in the darkness. She looked over her shoulder into the backseat.

  “Sig, you’d better not be chewing on my shit . . .” If he’d torn up the USGS equipment, she’d be fucked.

  A low growl emanated from behind the backseat. It sounded like something truly feral, not the semi-­tame dog that the coyote had been pretending to be.

  “Sig? Are you okay?”

  She saw a pair of ears silhouetted against the back window and the glint of Sig’s golden glare. Something shuffled and squeaked in the back, kicking against metal. Petra reached up for the dome light and craned to view the backseat. Her other hand hovered above the Bronco’s horn. A whole nest of rangers would come running if she leaned on it.

  The yellow light illuminated Sig perched on a dark heap of limbs. Holy fuck—­it was a person. Sig’s teeth were wound in a black hooded sweatshirt, and lanky cargo pants-­covered legs bent at an odd angle.

  “It’s me. Cal.” A frightened eye peeped up over an elbow. Sig snarled and nipped at his earring.

  “Cal. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I rode my motorbike.”

  “No . . . what are you doing here, in my truck?”

  Sig chewed on his hoodie cord, and Cal whimpered. “I was gonna ask for your help. I saw the note that said you were gonna be at the station.”

  “You broke into my trailer. And my truck. And you want my help with what, exactly?” Petra’s eyes narrowed.

  “Look, that wasn’t my idea. That was the Alchemist—­uh, Stroud. I was just along for the ride.”

  “What the hell were you doing in my trailer? Looking for money?”

  “No. He wants some antique you have. Says it looks like a compass. Gold. Must be worth a lot of money.”

  Petra’s gaze flicked outside the f
ogged window. “You know that there are park rangers out there? I could have you arrested.”

  “Please.” Cal looked at her with traumatized eyes. “Arrest me. Just get your coyote off me. He’s standing on my bladder, and I really have to pee.”

  Petra nodded at Sig. “Good dog.”

  Sig bared his teeth.

  “So you came back to search my truck, is that it?”

  “No. Like I said, I came to ask for your help.”

  Petra stared at him. ­“People don’t normally grant favors to burglars.”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t have much choice in that.”

  “What do you want? Money for meth?”

  “No. I need your help looking for the body that the guy in the bar was talking about. On Rutherford’s ranch.” Cal’s mouth thinned. “I think . . . I think it might belong to one of my friends.”

  “Why do you think that I can help you?”

  “I saw this thing on TV about geologists looking for Hoffa’s body under Giants Stadium.” Cal’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You can—­you can do that, right?”

  Petra lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe. But you’re gonna owe me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Body Count

  “Do you see anything yet?”

  Cal drifted along in Petra’s wake, staring at the glowing light on the display of the ground penetrating radar cart. It was already beginning to dim under the half charge she’d given it at the ranger station. The cart bounced over ruts and bent grasses at the edge of one of Rutherford’s fields. There was no sign of Rutherford’s ranch hands in the waxing moonlight, but the shadows and movements of the breeze made Petra jump. The light was enough to see by on this clear night. Enough to be seen.

  “Nothing yet,” Petra hissed. “You’re supposed to be keeping watch.”

  “Your coyote seems to have that under control.”

  Sig walked ahead of them, sniffing in the breeze. His ears stood straight and alert as he scanned the darkness.

  “Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Petra said. They’d been out here for hours, pacing behind the cart and looking over their shoulders. “This could take days, under even the best of conditions. We have no idea where Jeff found that body.”

  “We’ve gotta try,” Cal insisted.

  Petra was inclined to agree, if only for curiosity’s sake. She’d come partly because Cal had asked her, and partly because she wondered if the body he’d seen really resembled the one she’d found on the ridge. One body in such a bizarre state was a fluke, but more?

  She frowned as she stared at the readout monitor. The striations of the ground were odd here. The layers of soil scanned more opaque than most, but she thought she saw more black areas than she should.

  “What is it?” Cal bounced on the toes of his boots.

  “I dunno. This land is weird.” She pointed to the voids in the scan. “It looks like tunnels.”

  “Prairie dogs?” Cal suggested helpfully.

  “No. Bigger than that. Almost like a cave system. They’re all over here.” She chewed on her lip. “Almost looks like a mine, but less regular. More organic.” She wished that she had permission to be here, to ask questions. This might be an interesting geological feature to map.

  “Hey. Your coyote is freaking out.”

  Petra looked up from the fading monitor. Yards ahead, Sig was clawing at the ground, tossing clods of earth.

  She shrugged. “Well, we could try looking there.”

  She dragged the cart to where Sig was excavating. He whimpered and gave ground to the cart, but paced in a circle as Petra scanned the earth. She squinted at the readout. A spot had formed a few feet below on the scan, the readout showing broken sediment and disturbed earth.

  “Huh.”

  “What is it?”

  “There might be something there.”

  “How do we tell for sure?”

  Petra looked at Cal with enduring patience. “We dig. Go get the shovels out of the truck.”

  Cal skittered away to the dim hulk of the Bronco. Petra fingered the keys in her pocket. She liked the kid, but she didn’t trust him enough to leave the keys in the ignition. So far, he hadn’t done much to earn it.

  Sig didn’t wait for Cal. He tore into the ground as if someone had buried his favorite lunch meat. Petra picked up a clump of earth. It felt loose and granular, not hard and packed down like the rest of the soil here. It had been moved recently, since the last time it had rained. Water hadn’t had the opportunity to seal the clay together and drive the oxygen out. It made for easy digging, and Petra became more convinced that there was something below.

  By the time Cal had brought the shovels back from the truck, Sig had sunk up to his shoulders in his hole. Petra whistled for him to come out, and he clambered up in a spray of dirt. She wrinkled her nose, vowing to wash him.

  Cal clumsily set his shovel into the ground. He and Petra worked in silence for a few minutes, until her shovel blade struck a tree root.

  But there were no trees in this part of the field.

  Petra knelt, brushed the dirt away from a pale shape that gleamed in the moonlight. She sucked in her breath.

  “What is it?” Cal croaked.

  Petra stood back, so that her shadow didn’t interrupt the meager light. The claw of a hand reached upward in the soil, frozen in the dirt. But it wasn’t simply a hand. Bone grew over a watch and curled in a delicate lattice between the last fingers, a webbing that had been shattered by the shovel blade.

  Petra held her breath. She could still hear the watch ticking. Or maybe it was her heart. She glanced sidelong at Cal.

  Cal sat on his ass on the ground. He was shaking.

  “That’s human?” he whispered.

  “It looks like it. Sort of.”

  He let out a quavering breath, sweat glistening on his forehead. Petra sat back on her heels beside him.

  “There’s a watch,” Petra said. She didn’t have much interest in poking and prodding the body, but it was clear that Cal needed her to be in charge, here.

  “A watch,” he echoed.

  “Yeah.” Petra squinted at it. “It looks like a man’s watch. Silver with a black dial.” She leaned forward, rubbed at the broken crystal. “Has a Jolly Roger on the face.”

  Cal swallowed. “Adam never wore a watch. Some Taoist shit about being in the moment. It’s not him.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  Cal shook his head. “Not really. That Jolly Roger watch belongs to one of Stroud’s other guys. There’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  Petra reached for her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to take a picture, for evidence. And then I’m calling for help.”

  Cal blinked at the flash. “You can’t do that.”

  Petra stared at him. “There’s a body. We have to report it.”

  “The county sheriff’s office won’t touch it. This is Rutherford’s land.” He looked at her incredulously, as if she was just plain stupid.

  “Yeah, well. I think I know some ­people who will be interested in a calcinated body.” Petra dialed Mike’s cell phone number. It rang five times before a muzzy voice picked up.

  “Yell-­ow.” Stubble scraped the receiver.

  “Mike, this is Petra. I, uh, have a problem.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Petra heard bedsprings creak, and she imagined that he was sitting up and looking at his clock. “It’s three in the morning. And you’re supposed to be bunking with Maria.”

  “You know that body that Jeff was talking about at the Compostela?”

  “Yeah. Do I really want to know where you’re going with this?”

  “The Feds might. Cal and I just—­”

  “Who’s Cal?”

  “A kid
from town. His friends were missing. Long story. But Cal and I are looking at a calcinated body at the edge of one of the fields. Like the one from Specimen Ridge. I’ll write down the GPS coordinates, but I want to know what you want us to do—­should we cover it up or leave it be or . . .” Petra realized that she was babbling.

  Mike cut her off. His voice was suddenly steely and alert. “Are you at Rutherford’s ranch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll talk to the Feds about getting a warrant. Get the hell out of there, now.”

  “But—­”

  “Leave it and get out, now. It’s not safe.”

  “I—­”

  “Now.”

  “Uh, okay.” Petra shut the phone off and stood, grabbing the shovels. There was something in Mike’s voice that chilled her. As much as she resented being told what to do, she had to defer to his authority in law enforcement issues. And this was the second body she’d found in a day. Not a good start.

  “What happened?” Cal asked.

  “Get the gear and get into the truck. We’re leaving.”

  She gazed out at the moonlight horizon, blowing out her breath in frustration. No matter what rational thought demanded, none of the rules seemed to apply here.

  Fuck the rules.

  Today was going to be different. No more stonewalling, no more ignored questions. No one was giving Petra any answers, so she would damn well dig up her own.

  She’d risen early, before light crept into the window. She hadn’t slept, anyway, and figured that there was no point in lying in bed, stewing, for another ­couple of hours. Nor had there been a point in knocking on Maria’s door in the middle of the night, so she went back home after she and Cal unearthed the body. She’d spoken to Mike when she’d returned to the trailer, forwarding the smeary shot she’d taken in the field that looked like a scarecrow Halloween decoration. Sort of. It was blurry and dark, and she had to convince herself really hard to see the likeness of a body. He’d promised to contact the Feds, who could then get a warrant. But he couldn’t say exactly how long that would take.

  By dawn, she was on the road to Yellowstone, coffee from Bear’s deli in hand. Sig rode shotgun, looking pissed. The coyote had spent most of the night scratching and chewing his skin, and Petra had found her legs covered with dozens of tiny round red flea bites in the morning. Fortunately, Bear’s convenience store stocked flea collars. Petra had gone three rounds with Sig in the front seat of the Bronco before she’d managed to get the damn thing on him. She’d finally distracted him with a piece of donut and wrestled it around his neck. She didn’t know how long it would stay, since he kept trying to bite at it and slide his paws under the buckle to get it off.